


In(faux)tuation

by starliequinn



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Univerrse, College Ford - West Coast Tech, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-06-17 02:05:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15450993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starliequinn/pseuds/starliequinn
Summary: Veusin:consider: ford asking you out on a “practice” date in what he says is practice/preparation for asking out his crush and you not-so-secretly love him and wish the best for him so you do it, (but of course his crush is secretly you all along he just doesn’t want to ruin the friendship by telling you so the date goes amazingly on the surface but you both spend the entire time in internal emotional turmoil wishing this was an Actual date)Welp. I considered it. I mulled it over, ruminated on it.  Hope y'all enjoy what came out of it.





	1. Chapter 1

Your brother answered the door before you could react to the door chime, and you could tell he'd been grilling your date right on the stoop, in front of god and the whole neighborhood.  You’re barely halfway down the stairs when you find him standing with his hands behind his back, seemingly taking your kin’s interrogation in stride.

“So, this practice date my sister's roped into,” your sibling went on, leaning into the door frame, “Y’ain't gonna get, y’know, get all _weird_ about it are ya?”  Oh, brother.

“It's Ford,” you call out from the landing, “when is it _not_ weird?”  You grin as you take the last few steps with a hop, pulling up your dress a little as you land on bare feet.  Tonight was the night you had your mock date with the more unassuming of the Pines boys.

Stanford (“Just Ford is fine.” “Okay, _Just Ford_ ") F. Pines had caught your eye since you discovered he had tried to hide his sixth fingers from you.  He had been a rival competitor from West Coast Tech during Bot Week at the Mecha Guild’s national convention, Robuild.  It was what nerds such as yourself did when everyone else hit the beach for spring break.  Working your way up in the ranks with your bird/jellyfish hybrid android, it was in the final brackets of the tournament did you begin to converse with Ford.  He'd come over to talk to McGucket about his craftsmanship before Hadron routed him to you for the design.  "I'm just the handyman," he'd said, and although you were suspicious of a rival asking about your designs right before a match, you figure it couldn't hurt.  
  
And while Ford's team's creepy looking frog/crocodile hybrid ("Crog? _Frocodile_?") gave you a run for your money, it was ultimately outmatched by Team McReck-It’s COMBOT.  You expected to have him come and yell at _you_ (most of the other male competitors had) but he surprised the team with a very enthusiastic congrats and asked to sit with you during the rest of the matches.  His easy-going nature piqued your interest, and even when he blurted out, “I'd never think a girl would be interested in bot battling!” you found him enduring enough to stay pen pals after.  It didn't take long for you to be friends.

The letters came almost immediately, almost enough that you were sure he had written or before he reached California.  His perfect cursive and side margin doodles accompanied many anecdotes from his studies, and he bounced in some of his own personal academic ponderings.  He let you know he was a self-study into the supernatural and cryptology. He was working on becoming one of the top minds early into the science, hoping to pull it out of its pseudoscience origins. Through his many ramblings and tangents, you began to find his mind most intriguing.   _Weird_ , even.  You really liked weird and as time went on, you moved from being surprised by his letters to _anticipating_ them.

When all of the introductory pleasantries ran out, he began sharing personal information about himself: hopes, dreams (and nightmares), stories from high school.  You learn he has a younger brother, his mother is a phone psychic, and his father runs a pawn shop below their home.  He's even started sending you encrypted short messages aside from these letters, sending you a key he'd come up.  Symbol substitution he called it and thought it would be fun to send you puzzles.  It's not exactly what you expect, but with the frequency of his codes you pick it up fairly quickly.  
  
He tells you about his daily life at West Coast Tech as well as living on his own for the first time.  He doesn't seem to mention a lot of names, or at least none that make repeat appearances, so you wonder if he's doing as well as he says. As his letters become more frequent, you can't help but wonder if he's made friends.

You ask.

**_I met you, didn't I?_  
**

You decide that's a good enough answer.

What's more, it's not only his life that he mentions, but asks _a lot_ about yours.  You're not sure if it's because he wants to do something other than ramble about himself, but you don't mind the attention.

Reading his scrawl elicits what little you remember of his voice narrating each letter, and you've caught yourself more than once reading them slowly so you take longer to finish.  He's taken to writing several pages at a time, even adding full pages of drawings, but it's never enough.  Where he finds the time with his busy schedule is beyond you.  Before you can convince yourself that you can't possibly entertain the idea of an long distance relationship, he pleasantly surprises you with good news.  He says he'll be visiting home in a Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey during the winter holiday season.  Backupsmore was conveniently _in_ Jersey, and since you’re a hometown gal, you'd be home for the winter as well.

You tried to think nothing of it, though it's always the first thing your mind wanders to whenever you aren't occupied with something else.  He didn't mention wanting to make plans when he was in town—he'd be spending time with family during those two weeks.  Not that it stops you from daydreaming anyway.  It must be obvious as Fiddleford has started to take an account for all the moments when you fell silent for just a little too long. It didn't help when Ford began sending you pictures of his life and himself, and requested to call you long distance once a month.  Once you heard his booming voice, coupled with his last photographs, you _knew._

Without a shadow of a doubt, you had fallen hard for Stanford Pines.

It was no more evident when you took a gander at him from over your brother's shoulder.  “Good evening, Stanford,” you greeted him, nudging past your sibling to see him better. Dressed in what he considered casual date clothes, you couldn't help be impressed.   _Oh, yes,_ he was _very_ charming tonight.

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,” he replied.  You snorted and punched him lightly in the shoulder.  
  
"That's so corny,” you laughed, "Minus five points.  Sorry. Personal bias, maybe.  I know you too well to be seduced by your French.  Already starting the night off in the red, Ford."

Stanford rubbed the spot on his arm and something about the way he looked diffidently at you made you almost guilty.  "I appreciate it," he said quietly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I can understand that has occasional success, this isn't a movie and you're a real person.  I should take into account how well I know who I'm... um, dating."  
  
As matter-of-factly as he tried to be, you can tell he felt a little put off by the criticism.  Why else would he be so pink around the ears? You felt bad about the reaction; this “practice date,” as your brother sorely reminded you, was at Ford’s request and you had mixed feelings on how hard he wanted you to be on him.

 _‘I believe trial and error runs would provide the best possible opportunity for success in future dating scenarios,’_ he had stated during his last phone call.  He then went on to request that you help him with this hypothesis and, as a good friend, you accepted. Mainly because this was so very much like your awkward friend, but also because you were certain this was probably your only chance to date him.  
  
The agreement was bittersweet—he'd romance you, but you'd both laugh it off and tell him what works and what doesn't work for a proper date.  He believed this to be the best way to have the best chance with a girl he'd had his eye on for a while and, since you’re certain there's very little you won’t do for Stanford Pines, you simply…  
  
Went with it.  
  
You knew it sounded absurd, but you couldn't find it in yourself to turn him down.  Knowing his past failed attempts in his formative years, he felt this may be his last ditch attempt at something tangible.  Perhaps the notion of him losing hope was what pulled your heartstrings a little. He was not your responsibility you reminded yourself, but he was still your friend.  And when he finally remembered to produce the flowers he had held behind his back, you felt good about this decision.  
  
_Delusional, sure._  
  
As you took them, he beamed.   _I could stand for a bit of delusional._  
  
“Was that alright?  The flowers?” he asked.    
  
You turn the bouquet over in your hands.  “Depends. Flowers may suggest a supplicative behaviour; it comes across as ‘please like me’ more than ‘I thought of you,’ to a person you’ve barely begun to know.”  You look up at him, catching his mouth hanging slightly.  
  
“Hey, you asked to be scored, and I took it seriously.  I mean it’s you, Ford,” you say, “Of course I did my homework.  And for the record, I already like—”  
  
He withdrew a polaroid from the breast pocket of his button up and presented it. Upon inspection, you find that it’s a picture that you’ve sent months ago.  In the background, in a yellow pitcher-shaped vase, was a bouquet matching the very one you held.  Sunflowers you'd received for your birthday.  As you made to say something, he cut you off once again.  
  
“It’s you, my dear.  Of course I did my homework.”

A snort _._ “ _Smooth_ ,” your brother quips, and you remember he’s standing right there.  

You give him a face that he recognizes as his cue to exit, but not before sharing an admonitory glance with Ford.   You don’t catch it first hand, but rather a second hand from Ford’s reaction to it—you’d seen it many times on faces of past dates.  You mean to tell him to stop intimidating them, but he wordlessly takes the flowers from you and heads to the kitchen. Before turning into the room, he raises his eyebrows, looking between you and Ford: _Why are you still here?_

Ford seems to think the same thing as he holds his elbow out.  How gentlemanly.  You hook your arm into it, taking off into the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (You make a note to ask him if he just carries that photo of you around with him later.)
> 
>  
> 
> Hey y'all, I'm sure you've noticed by now this is an alternate Ford. I'm writing another story dealing with you and said Ford, so think of this as the backstory to something I'm writing called "Roots" (wt). Y'know, whenever I actually post it.
> 
> Thanks to Cactus_Candy for ~~creeping in my Google Docs every other day~~ involuntarily beta-ing these.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

“Listen, I don't know how fancy your crush is but _I'm_ okay with public transit.  I even have a pass—No, Ford, _really._ "  
  
The end of the block wasn’t in view before he started apologizing for not having a car; he'd taken a train from his town to yours, nearly an hour away.  He explains that his parents would have lent him a car (his mother insisted on it), but with very little experience driving over ice, he didn't want to risk the drive at night.  Typical Ford, always thinking ahead.  His own Subaru was still on campus in California and he didn't find any reason to drive it cross country; in fact, he sheepishly admitted he wasn't even sure the little yellow hatchback it would make it.  You reassured him you could do with a walk and that it would be nice to catch up instead of him focusing on driving.

The decision to change from a dress to something more fitting for the winter weather made you miss the next bus, though the wait during the weekend was fairly brief.  The whole time Ford was chattering on about his flight home: the delays (of course, in this weather), the travellers he observed (and may have sketched) around the airport and onboard, and how he'd been hit on by a cafe barista at O’Hare after relenting about his flight had been overbooked.  The curious look you must have given him made him backpeddal a bit, realising that this story was probably not 'date material.'  “Well, I mean… I did tell her I had a thing for a girl back home.”   
  
You give him a slanted smile. _Lucky her._ “Good recovery,” you tell him, but still make a silent tally of it.  Your mental scorecard for this date was not unlike a child's chore chart with sticky neon stars for good points.  You're unsure what your parameters are for losing points (if at all), but you imagine you might need to write it down later as the night progresses.  Especially when he starts falling into the trap of bad clichés.  To his credit, Ford also did a lot of things that you _didn't_ expect as well.  During the walk, he'd let go of your arm as a natural progression of a very animated story he was telling.  You hadn't noticed it right away, but before you put your hands in your pocket to keep them from freezing, he brushed his fingers against your knuckles.  The contact made your heart skip, but he didn't stop until he took your hand and placed it in his pocket with his own.  He avoided your gaze and continued with his tale as if nothing had happened.

So it only made sense when he slipped his arm around the back of your seat, looking out the window once boarding the bus.  You can't tell if he's embarrassed or uncomfortable about all of the contact he's been making all night, but his efforts shouldn't go unnoticed.  You try to remember that you are supposed to make this your dream date, too, so you nestle genially into his side to let him know he's doing alright.  It was one of the better decisions you'd made tonight, as you're rewarded with a better opportunity to catch an indistinct scent of sweet and nutty in the fabric of his sweater, with a strong hint of some fresh cologne just under the collar.  Or maybe it's just soap; it smells a lot like Irish Spring.

As you relish the facts that his sweater is not as scratchy as it looks and that he was an absolute space heater, you try not to let it show how much you enjoy his hand suddenly slipping onto your shoulder.  Ford is absently tucking your hair behind your ear when he finally looks at you.   
  
“Okay so far?”  His voice cracked as he asked.

“Are you sure you needed a practice date?” you ask, “You're not bad at this, Ford.”  He doesn't answer, but you get a brief chuckle and a lopsided grin he thought he could hide by turning away again.  The ride goes on, and he does eventually pick up his storytelling to fill the silence.  As much as you would love to just focus on his fingertips lightly brushing against your collarbone, he goes into some things he's discovered in his studies on the paranormal.   
  
Ford, you've come to learn, is very enthusiastic when it comes to talking about things he knows.  Since his repertoire of both useful _and_ useless knowledge is vast, he's a very passionate speaker in just about everything, but his tone changes when it comes to this particular topic; it takes on a new depth of admiration.  He puts his free arm to use with grandiose, emphasizing gestures, and you feel as if he would pull down planets to show you the extraterrestrial life that might possibly live there.  You catch every time he has to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose when he moves his head just an inch too vigorously and when he has to avoid his sweeping arm from hitting the glass when he flourished a statement, but the one thing that enchanted you most was when he turned to you for some sort of validation to his words.  The apples of his cheeks would glow, radiance scintillating behind his eyes as he surveyed you for a response.  
  
"So, you just _let_  it go?" you ask.  It didn't look like that was the response he was searching for, his expression flattened.  
  
"The Jersey Devil is approximately the height of two De Villes, end to end.  _If_ I were to guess."  
  
"S'that huge?  How does anyone miss the sightings?"  
  
"They don't, they're all recorded in a couple of books about Cryptology.  Why it's not openly discussed... I could understand, but I don't necessarily agree."  
  
"Even still, you let it _go_."  
  
"I was also 8 years old at the time, so the size could just be a matter of a child's perspective.  I was also small enough to fit within his jaws, so I think I did right by him and myself by letting him loose."  
  
"I'm impressed that 8-year-old you had captured it _by yourself_.  Moreover that it didn't just tear through and escape on its own."  
  
Ford's next sentence was drowned out by the intercom overhead, announcing incoming arrival at the central downtown bus station.  It continued to drone on about rider safety, so whatever Ford was going to say just ended in a shrug and peering out the window.  Other riders began shuffling for their belongings and re-administering scarves and hats, while others had already begun standing despite the caution of remaining seated until the bus has come to a complete stop.  Ford nudged you and removed his arm from your shoulder, and you took this as a sign that this was it.  
  
Once outside, the holiday decor was the first thing to grab your attention.  Plastic green garland and ribbons, super-glued with shiny colored baubles, were wrapped around the hub's massive support columns.  What wasn't dusted with a light snow was glinting against ropes of lights.  You notice a lot of these are higher up on the beams, out of the reach of pedestrians.  Smart.  Along with this, you can see a row of hand-made styrofoam snowmen with some kind of placard next to it, and you assume it was made by a group of inter-city 3rd-graders, but upon closer inspection, you find it's by the high school's advanced art class.  You stand to wonder if this is supposed to be abstract art when Ford suddenly grabs your arm a little too tightly and starts pushing you in a direction.    
  
You get a few steps before ripping your arm away and make give him some really harsh words, until you're cut off by some loud shrieking.  You whip your head over to see the cause of the commotion: a pair of young women, shopping bags strewn before them, are having a screaming match in the middle of the station.  A crowd is already gathering and you realise you were about to become part of it.  
  
With a flat expression, you sigh.   _Ah, Brawlsburg.  Living up to its name._   Nothing says a visit to downtown like a good ol' scrap.  Ford was already apologizing for grabbing in such a way, so you don't bother reprimanding him now, but you rub your arm in the spot a little more than necessary to get your point across.  Moving away, an officer brushes past you towards the scuffle, and you half expect someone to shout, "it's the pigs!" and for the whole group to scatter, but you lose sight of the officer just as quickly as he'd appeared.  
  
The central hub was bustling with holiday shoppers and tourists, a flurry of brightly colored winterwear dazzling your line of sight.  Normally you'd worry about pickpockets in such a place, but with no shopping bags in tow, you imagine the students of the schools of seven bells have their eyes set elsewhere.  Somewhere nearby, a pair plays God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman on Spanish guitars, and you can't help but nod your head along; the soulful flamenco music was more festive than the traditional garble you heard over the hub's speakers.  You turn to Ford to ask if he can see where they're playing, but instead you catch him as he pulls out a neatly folded piece of paper from his shirt breast pocket.  You immediately recognize it as the same kind of parchment paper he uses to write letters with.  
  
"Whatcha got there?" you ask, peering over his shoulder.  Obviously startled, Ford immediately pressed the paper to his chest and gave you a wide-eyed expression, acting as if you'd just intruded on a very personal moment.  When he didn't answer, you rolled your wrist to indicate that he should probably say something.   
  
He let his gaze wander to the side and coughed.  "It's—I want to surprise you."  Reaching the information booth, he busies himself with looking over the city map posted at the window.  You figure it's more to avoid making eye contact with you than it is to studying his next course of action.  
  
_Is he embarrassed?_    "Ford.  I know this place like the back of my hand," you go on, "Unless you're going to have me walk with you blindfolded— _which I do not recommend in this part of town_ —chances are, I'll know where we're going just by heading down the street."  
  
"I can still try, right?"  
  
You chuckle and decide to let it go and focus on a vending machine on the side of the booth, lazily panning over the choices.  Deciding that water is probably the best for now, you choose it.  Nothing happens.  Sold out. 

Annoyed, you put your change back into your pocket.  Ford has moved on from the map to the lady behind the desk, leaning in towards the speaker in the glass.  You can't hear him, and you're sure it's on purpose that he's turned his head away from you as well.  The lady blinked but regarded you for a moment and laughed out her reply.  Whatever their next exchange of words had been caused him to turn slightly and break out in a spontaneous grin, similar to the same one you'd seen earlier while talking about the Jersey Devil and his supernatural weirdness.

Figuring this would take a while, you try your luck with the machine again.  There's a tie between cherry cola and ginger ale, but ultimately you end up losing—sold out again.  Exasperated, you look around hoping to spot a street vendor.  By now, a set of bells has been added to the duo flamenco players, this one sounding like Jingle Bell Rock.  The crowd is too dense to see any carts in the distance, and you shrug.  You're sure you'll find something later.

Casting a glance over at your date, you feel your face warm up just a tinge, and you pause to just appreciate the moment.  He's really here.  Physically, and not just a figment of your imagination.  Correspondence for the past several months has only done so much preparation for seeing him here _in person,_ and the reality of it was absolutely chimerical.  You watch him studiously taking direction, his face transfixed in concentration, and you suddenly wish you'd made more of an effort in school to go to a place like WCT.  What would life be like if you could sit in the same class?  You catch yourself in these daydreams often and theorize you'd not get a whole lot done.  But it would be more of an excuse to ask Ford to tutor you, right?  Walk the same halls, go to the same cafeteria, check out the same library books, awkwardly ditch the same parties...  You tried not to smile outwardly at the thought, and suspect to hear no end to Fiddleford's teasing for months if this were to happen.

"Hm. Seems like I've, uh, made a slight miscalculation," he called over.  He nodded a small show of thanks to the lady before walking over;  he's slow about it, ensuring the scrap of paper is folded and pocketed before reaching you.  "The reservations I've made are for a different restaurant altogether.  Well, sort of.  There's two by the same name on the same street but in different cities.  One here, and one in, uh, Donnybrook?"  
  
"Oh," you replied, already feeling the distance between here and the next town over, "Well, that's a shame."  
  
"Perhaps next time," he says absently, and he gives you smile you could interpret as trying to convince you that he isn't disappointed in his mistake.  It doesn't feel like a huge deal, but you feel bad anyway; Ford really put some thought into this date if he had set up some dinner reservations, and you could tell he wanted to impress.  You half wonder what he had planned, but rather than spend any more time dwelling on what could have been, you try to cheer him up by telling him there's plenty to do in the immediate area.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, thanks for coming back! This has been sitting in my drafts for some time, hence the sudden cut off, but I wanted to get it out there before things started getting wild in my every day life.
> 
> Anyway, I'm on tumblr as solunafluer if you wanted to send a message. Encouraging or critiquing, I'll answer questions as well.


End file.
